No Sugar, No Cream
by silbecoo
Summary: Five times Frank brings Karen coffee and one time he doesn't.
1. The First Time

The first time he does it she nearly jumps out of her skin. She's getting a breath fresh of air just outside the newspaper's offices. He appears silently out of the shadows beside her with no warning.

She yelps, covering it up almost immediately, hand flying to her mouth. "What are you doing here?" She hisses out the question, pushing him back into the shadows so no one sees.

It's been weeks since she last saw him, towering ominously on the rooftop while sirens whirred and lights flashed. As of now, he's still officially dead, but there are murmurs rippling through the air. Until he does something bigger he's just a ghost story criminals pass along by word of mouth, a cautionary tale. Karen honestly prefers it that way. It means he's safe.

"I brought coffee." He holds old the paper cup to her, a token of his good intentions. "Sugar and cream?"

She takes it from him, squinting in the ambient light to see his face. The bruises have faded, cuts and scrapes taking just a bit longer. It's the first time she's seen him without black eyes. Taking a sip, she glares at him. "I prefer it black."

One corner of his mouth twitches up, the expression in his eyes softening. "I should have known."

"You didn't answer my question, Frank." She's still semi-whispering, but somehow manages to infuse a little bit of command into her voice.

He concentrates on his own coffee, taking a big gulp before looking back at her. He holds the cup like it's delicate, like he might crush it if he used anything other than his patented three finger grip, thumb on the back, two in front. "You always stay here this late?"

Typical defection, she thinks. The fact that he's here at all means that he knows she always stays here late, that he's become acquainted with her schedule. She raises one eyebrow. "Stalking me?" She's staring him down. The intensity of this little exchange, the inexplicable aura of flirtation, gives her a little thrill, and she takes a step closer to him.

"Someone's gotta make sure you don't get kidnapped on the way home." He drains his cup, and looks directly at her. "I read your piece."

Suddenly all of her confidence flees, mouth dropping open as she stares. She's blushing, damn it, the heat of it cascading across her face. "Uh, so…" She clears her throat, nerves making her more jittery than the coffee ever could. "W-what did you think?"

He squints, glancing up at the lights overhead, pretending to think about it. "Let's just say, that's one article that I wouldn't line a hamster cage with."

And there it is, that elusive smile. It's so quick she almost misses it. Her heart flutters, drumming in her chest like the wings of a butterfly. She's standing directly in front of him, breathless with something she can't even put into words. Why is she drawn to him? It's like a moth fluttering toward a single light in an oppressively dark room. There's so much darkness.

She opens her mouth to tell him that she wanted to write about him, to tell the world he is a good man, that everyone has equal measures of darkness and light. Hell, if she could just blurt out "It was about you!" and see his reaction that would be enough.

Instead she just stands, transfixed, clutching a cup of hot coffee and staring into his nearly unreadable expression. She opens her mouth to speak and nothing comes out.

Frank closes the space between them, and her heart nearly stops in anticipation. The feel of his hand slipping beneath her short jacket sends a shiver through her, and it is only belatedly that she realizes he's tracing the leather strap of her gun holster.

She purchased the daintiest one she could find, hoping to hide it beneath short jackets and the occasional bolero. She doesn't exactly have a conceal/carry permit. The pistol rests just beneath her left arm.

Close now, he whispers in her ear. "Locked and loaded, safety's on." Just a comment, but it's full of pleasant approval, and she feels a corresponding pleasure wash over her.

Karen nods, unable to stop him from withdrawing slowly. He presses a chaste kiss into her temple before turning and disappearing into the shadows. "Take care, ma'am."


	2. The Second Time

The second time it happens, she's dreaming, curled up in a blanket cocoon the likes of which would impress even the most industrious caterpillar

Her eyes flutter open, and she's not exactly sure why she's awake so early, the sky outside barely even tinged with pink. The glowing numbers of her alarm clock tell her it's barely even five. Groaning in protest, she wiggles back into her blankets.

But then she hears it, the noise that must have woken her up to begin with, an even rapping on her apartment door. A part of her wants to just close her eyes and ignore it, but there's a much stronger desire to give the person knocking a piece of her mind. Who goes around waking hardworking investigative journalists up before dawn?

Suddenly energized, she stomps through the apartment, flipping the locks and flinging open the door without even bothering to look through the peephole.

"Listen here, buddy! I don't know who you think-" She stops, mid-rant to stare at Frank. One hand still suspended in the air, ready to knock again, the other clutching a cup of joe. "Frank?"

"Present and accounted for." He steps through the doorway, even though she hasn't completely vacated the space, brushing up against her briefly. "I brought coffee."

Karen takes the proffered beverage without thinking. The contrasting warmth in her hands makes her realize just how chilly her apartment is, and the fact that she isn't wearing pants, just a long-ish t-shirt hanging almost to her knees.

Shutting the door, she dashes back across the apartment, coffee in hand as she calls out behind her. "What the hell, Frank?"

She's annoyed, sure, but also a little worried. A drop-by from the Punisher at such an early hour doesn't bode well, at least not for the criminal element in her neighborhood.

"I was thinking …"

He trails off, and she stops to listen, one leg in and one leg out of the only clean pair of jeans she owns.

Finally the low rumble she's so familiar with continues. "... How much practice do you have with that pistol of yours?"

She shoves her other leg into the pants and jerks them all the way up, grabbing the coffee off her nightstand. When she walks back into the living room, he's not facing her. He's inspecting the bullet holes still in her drywall, a frown creasing his brow.

She clears her throat, feeling more than a little irritated. Here is yet another man out to protect poor defenseless Karen Page. She isn't having it. "Why, Frank? You need a sidekick or something?" She takes a drink of the coffee, as if to punctuate her question, but the caustic taste nearly brings her to her knees, knocking the wind right out of her sails. She can hear Frank laugh, softly, and it only gets her more riled up. "What is _this_?"

"You said you liked it black."

"Yes, I like good coffee black. This liquified tar needs a little cream and sugar. Where did you get this? Please don't say the diner on the corner."

"I won't say the diner on the corner." He crosses the living room, and takes the coffee from her, walking over to get little kitchenette. He works quickly, grabbing a spoon and her sugar bowl. "So… how much practice _do_ you have with that gun?"

Karen watches him, spooning sugar into the heinously bad coffee. He moves fluidly to her fridge and pulls out the cream. She blinks. He looks strangely at home. "Um, enough… I have enough practice. "You go to a shooting range?"

"Once."

He turns to her, hand proffering the now palatable coffee. "Once isn't enough, not for you to be carrying that thing around with you all day." He grabs her jacket off the coat hook, holding it out to her. "Come on, I know a place."

She takes a thoughtful sip from the still warm cup. It's pleasant now, sweet and mild, with only a hint of the previous bitter notes. She takes the jacket from him, and is rewarded with a smile. This time it reaches his eyes. They crinkle slightly at the corners, and she finds it harder to maintain her less than cheery attitude.

He's so pleased with himself. She doesn't know where he or not she wants to kiss him or slap him, a flood of heat zipping through her unexpectedly. Grabbing her keys from the counter, she pushes past him. "I know how to shoot, Frank."

"I know."

"Good. Let's go."


	3. The Third Time

The third time it happens, Karen is basking in the sunlight of a gorgeous day. It's mid-afternoon and she's chasing down a lead in the west-village. Well… she _was_ chasing down a lead, but a rumbling in her stomach and a faint sheen of perspiration have declared that it's lunchtime, and really, who is she to argue?

A Cuban restaurant calls her name, half a dozen little wrought iron tables on the sidewalk, festively striped umbrellas, peppy music filtering out into the street; the perfect antidote for the disappointment she feels brewing. She's pounded the pavement for hours, but no one's giving her anything she can use. A spate of disappearances has everyone shaking in their boots, too afraid to talk to a persistent blonde asking too many questions.

She takes a seat and unfolds the newspaper tucked under her arm. Reading the crime reports out of habit, her eyes unconsciously scan for signs of Frank. He's been incredibly under the radar lately, so much so that Karen feels a little shiver of panic when she thinks about it too much.

It's been over a month since his impromptu shooting range adventure, and she hasn't heard his moniker whispered in hushed tones recently, and a few brazen criminals have taken to claiming they took out the punisher. Worrying about him has become a constant background noise, and she isn't really sure how to deal with it.

Just as she's about to give up, she finds a tiny blurb about two suspected arms dealers found lying dead in the street, a single bullet in each of their heads. She lets out a sigh of relief, folding the newspaper carefully.

"Anything interesting?"

The softly spoken question catches her by surprise, and she twists in her chair to see if it's really him casting a menacing shadow over the little table.

Her mouth drops open. She can't believe what she's seeing. He's wearing a tailored suit, charcoal gray. The black button down underneath is open at the collar, a bronze patch of skin peeking out. She blinks, willing the obvious hallucination to dissipate.

Instead of disappearing, Frank circles the table and sits down across from her, frowning mightily. He waves two fingers to get the attention of a waiter, and continues to ignore Karen's agape expression.

"Dos cortaditos, por favor."

Karen watches the waiter slip back into the restaurant, turning back to Frank the second the other man disappears. "What are you doing here? Someone's gonna recognize you!" Her eyes dart back and forth, scanning the other patrons. Everyone seems to be minding their own business.

"In this getup? Not a chance." He plucks at the lapel of his suit in disgust. "What are you doing here? You've walked into three separate locations I was scoping out this week. Are you trying to get kidnapped again?"

"What?"

"You've been sticking your nose into some pretty unsavory dealings, Miss Page. You could be more discreet."

He's angry with her, it seems. It's an interesting development, especially since that anger seems to come from a place of concern. She can't help but smile at him. "Are you worried about me?"

"Those men…"

Her interest is piqued, previous worry floating away like smoke in wind. "Do you know who's behind the disappearances? Are they drug related? Human trafficking? Mob hits?"

He shakes his head at her tenacity, nostrils flaring. "Let's just say it wouldn't be good for your health if they knew what you were up to."

Disappointed, Karen frowns at him. "Fine, don't tell me, but I'm not going to stop doing my job."

Their waiter returns, setting two tiny cups of coffee on the little table. Karen picks hers up first, savoring the rich aroma before taking a small sip. "Oh, God, I love Cuban coffee." A little noise of pleasure escapes her involuntarily.

Frank's jaw ticks at the sound. He picks up his own cup and tosses the entire thing back. "Promise me, you'll be careful."

His stare is intense, waiting for her to answer. Words fail her, the need in his gaze as surprising as it is disarming. She's never seen him like this, clean shaven, hair sharp like he's just gotten a cut. It seems he has more than one friend in this city. She reaches across the tiny table, fingertips finding a fresh cut just below his eye. The wound probably needs stitches, but he's made due with medical grade adhesive. She traces it, nodding to reassure him. "You be careful too, Frank."

She doesn't get an answer, not even a nod, but she's not bothered. He has a way of communicating things to her with his eyes. She's not even sure he realizes how much he telegraphs when he stares so intently.

He slips away from her, and she can tell he's not quite happy with her. Watching him walk away, Karen wonders what it would take to get him to say the things she sees inside of him.


	4. The Fourth Time: part 1

The fourth time it happens, he goes out and buys a bag of dark roasted arabica beans. The motor in his coffee grinder whirs, pulverizing them into a medium grain. There are very few things in his living quarters, but he has a whole counter dedicated to making coffee. Two mugs sit upside-down next to an ancient percolator.

He lives on the stuff, not caring about quality, only quantity. But Miss Page has a refined palate. He can still see the way her little nose scrunched up at the taste of the diner-swill he took her, and he can still hear the indecent sounds of delight that came from the back of her throat when she tasted the strong espresso.

He doesn't know why he can't just walk away from her. He's tried, time and again, but even when he manages to put her out of his thoughts, to relegate her sweet smile to the darkest corners of his mind, she still manages to come charging back in.

Lately it's been quite literal, chasing some story into the haunts of the city's biggest assholes. Her shining blonde hair swinging over delicate shoulders as she browbeats the scumbag in the sights of his rifle.

The last prick she questioned followed her home, sat outside of her apartment for hours, then proceeded to follow her to the Bulletin's offices the next morning. Frank had stayed his itchy trigger finger in the hopes that the lowlife would lead him back to the man running things, but it was too much to hope for.

When the squat little man started snooping around her building again, this time with a poorly concealed revolver tucked into his waistband, Frank took him out without a second thought, not even waiting to watch him hit the pavement.

By the time he realized Karen was tracking him, using newspaper reports of his kills to map out which neighborhoods he spent the most time in, it was too late. She'd already spied him at the laundromat, tracked him to the hole-in-the-wall diner where he always ate. She watched him from a distance, the hood of her jacket flipped up over her hair, giant sunglasses obscuring her expression.

He always shakes her off before heading home, ducking into alleys, slipping through holes in fences. It isn't hard. But he's choosing a different tack tonight's. She's getting closer and closer and the people around here are too dangerous for her to start knocking on doors. After cleaning his plate at the diner, he waited, making sure she was hovering down the street before he slipped out, and snaked his way back home.

The building he lives in is long since abandoned. Perhaps it was once a sweatshop of some kind. That's the only explanation he can think of for the crow's nest office that looks out over the empty floors. Some kind of overseer's station. It was easy enough to convert into living space, and he can see anyone coming from any direction once they're inside the warehouse.

He pours the water into the pot, checking the little gas stove's pilot light. In a matter of seconds, blue flickering flames dance beneath the silver pot. The distinct perking noise starts soon after, and he can smell the rich aroma of coffee as the water is forced up through the granules.

He hears her before he sees her. His ears are nothing compared to Red's, but he's trained himself to constantly have them pricked, the faintest sound making the hairs on his arm stand on end. She's sliding the door on the south side of the building open, trying as hard as possible to be quiet. It swings back with a bang, just like every time he's ever opened it, and he can hear a softly spoken curse drift through the air.

He can't help the way the corner of his mouth twitches up. Taking the pot off the burner, he hooks his fingers into the mug handles, flipping them over so he can pour the piping hot coffee up to the brims.

There's a softly glowing yellow light that pours out of the bird's nest windows and pools on the warehouse floor. It illuminates the stairs leading up to where he lives. Any other time it would be off, but he doesn't want her tripping on the narrow metal steps.

"Frank?"

Her voice echoes, and he freezes, inexplicable panic surging in him like a lightning bolt. Adrenaline sets his heart to pounding, bells of warning jangling along his nerves. It's like a flashing neon sign that says DANGER is lighting up behind his eyes.

Suddenly it occurs to him for the first time that he's afraid of her, of what she could do to him if he let her. The pain that waiting for him. He doesn't want her here, and yet… he basically left her a trail of breadcrumbs. He tells himself it's because they need to talk, that he needs to impress upon her the danger of this path she's choosing.

Finally the sound he's waiting for comes, tentative knocking, and he's helpless to call out. Hooking one finger through the handles of both mugs, he reaches out and swings open the heavy metal door.

"Karen." He doesn't realize it's the first time he's ever called her by her first name until her mouth falls open. He's seen her in a state of shock before, rage even, but he doesn't think her eyes have ever been this wide… or quite this blue.

He offers her one of the coffees and steps aside. Gesturing to the sofa pushed up against the back wall. "We need to talk."


	5. The Fourth Time: Part 2

Karen takes a sip of the coffee, holding the mug with both hands like she might drop it otherwise. She tries not to let the fact that it's the most perfect cup she's ever had distract her, but it's smooth going down, and her eyes flutter shut for half a second. She tells herself to focus, that she has a reason for coming here that has nothing to do with the way he's looking at her. "What the hell happened to my source Frank?"

He walks over to the couch, settling in and taking a long pull from his cup. She knows what happened, but she wants him to say it, to admit that he's been keeping an eye on her, trying to protect her. "He was going to kill you."

Shaking her head, she sits down beside him, clutching the cup so she doesn't give herself away with dramatic hand gestures. She has a secret, and it pains her because she never wanted to lie to Frank.

"No he wasn't." She's not sure about this, but short of Alan telling Frank his intentions she's sure there's no way he can be sure either. "I trusted him. He was my source."

"He was going to kill you."

She sits the coffee a little too forcefully, rattling the cup against the glass top. "Listen, Frank, this is important. I need to get to the bottom of everything, and if you keep killing my contacts it'll never happen. I think I know who's giving the orders."

He snaps, slamming his own cup down beside hers. Grabbing her shoulders, he pulls her close. "Karen, I swear to God. I can't do this." She knows what he means, he can't be responsible for someone he cares about. He can't face another bad day, the loss would any progress, shattering him from the inside out. "Do you hear me, Karen?"

She's alarmed, hearing his pain laced words, seeing the passion contorting his features. It breaks her heart that she's hurting him like this. She aches for him, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. There are more bruises and cuts than the last time she saw him. They tell a story of little scuffles here and there, nothing major. It's the devastation she can see behind his eyes that makes her resolve crumble. She can't lie to him. "Frank, I think it's my father. I think he's the one. I can't stop till I find out. This has nothing to do with you."

She never intended to tell him. She hates that it's the truth, but she knows the code Frank lives by, and that he could never let Paxton Page continue to hurt people. But it's her father, and deep down beneath all the terrible things he's done, she still thinks he could be the man who taught her how to ride a bike and kissed her scraped knees, the man who held her when she was scared.

When Frank doesn't reply, she holds him fast, willing him to understand the predicament she's in. "Frank?" His name is a whisper, a plea to stay with her, not just physically, but to stay with her, to understand.

He nods, and she nearly collapses against him in relief. Releasing her shoulders, he begins to pull away, but she doesn't let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding tight.

She finds his lips, soft and warm against her tongue. He's passive at first, and somehow she's always known it would be like this, that she would have to be the one to lean in, initiate first contact. He's so strong, but this part of him is as fragile as spun glass, distrusting of every signal. But God, he's so warm it's hard to think, and he tastes like the expertly brewed coffee that's still sitting on the table.

When he finally takes control, pushing her back against the deep cushions of the couch, she loses every train of thought that was zipping through her mind. Everything falls away, and the only thing left is Frank, touching her like she might disappear if he goes too fast, kissing her like he's trying to memorize the shape of her mouth.

No matter what happens, she won't forget this, won't forget the smell of gently brewed coffee and the feel of strong hands gently mapping the length of her body.


	6. The Fifth Time

**A/N: The feedback I've gotten in this has been so lovely. I really really appreciate it. This chapter is a little different (weird?), but I like it.**

The fifth time it happens Karen is exhausted, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. The only thing she wants is to slip quietly into her apartment and spend the next ten years curled up in a ball sobbing. Her father is dead. It's plain and simple and she should be relieved that her nightmare is over, but...

She can feel the grief churning inside of her, threatening to tear her apart. She needs something to hold her together, fear that the she's going to lose some integral piece of herself if she just gives in to the sadness.

And it doesn't make sense really. Paxton Page, the man that was her father, was dead long before tonight, long before she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Something happened to the quietly ruminating physicist he'd once been, insanity erasing all signs of humanity from his brain. The things he'd been doing… Karen's fears had been merely a fraction of what was going on.

He was responsible for the disappearances… the deaths. Now, when she closes her eyes she can see the demented lab he'd built in one of the abandoned train tunnels beneath the city. She can see the faces of his victims frozen in torment, blood pooling in the floor beneath the exam tables. Her father had been driven mad, greed pushing him further and further with his experimentation, manipulating radiation in an attempt to create superhumans. Somewhere along the way things went sideways, the neural pathways in his brain misfiring more than not.

His eyes. She can still see them, bloodshot and lolling erratically as he tried to look at her. He hadn't known who she was, running at her like a freight train with a saw in his hand. The image of blood blooming out across his chest, a half a second of pained recognition flitting across his face before he crumpled into a lifeless heap. It washes over her all at once and she collapses onto her bed fully clothed.

And Frank, half a second too late to save her from the awful necessity of putting a bullet in her father. She'd angrily pushed him away, running as fast as she could through the tunnels until she reached the damp rungs of a ladder leading back up to the street. Even now, thinking of the pained expression that flitted across his face fills her with self loathing. Frank really sees her now. The angelically sweet image, the one she always tries so hard to maintain has been ripped away like it was never there to begin with. For a long time it was easy to convince herself the image was real, to convince others. She's certain that Frank will never want to see her again, now that he knows what a horrible person she is, killing her own father.

That's the thought that does it, that snips the last thread holding her together. The sobs are loud and they echo off the walls of her tiny apartment, ring in her ears like the wails of a banshee. She clutches at the pillow on her bed, desperate for something to hold onto. She can't hear the knocking at her door, the person yelling her name, begging her to let him in. She doesn't even hear the door frame splinter when he throws his shoulder against the paneling.

It's only when Frank sits on the edge of her bed, the cheap springs giving under his weight, that she opens her eyes, tears still streaming down her face. She turns away, curling up more tightly than before, hoping he'll go away. But he doesn't, instead he curls up next to her, occasionally running a soothing hand over her hair, holding her tight so she doesn't fly apart.

Hours later, the sun streaming through her window, eyes puffy from crying, she sits up in bed. The sound of movement coming from the direction of her kitchenette catches her attention. He's making coffee, drumming his fingers on the counter as he impatiently waits for the little drips to fill up the carafe.

She watches him silently from the bed, grateful for her open plan apartment. It feels like she's intruding upon an ancient ritual. He's shirtless, padding around her apartment barefoot, hair till mussed from sleep. Even though mere hours before their limbs had been tangled and she'd been snoring on his chest, she still feels a little blush creep up through her cheeks.

When he turns to her, one of her tiny little coffee cups cradled in his huge hands, the steam rolling off the top, she feels an overwhelming sense of relief. He stayed. He saw who she really was, and he stayed.

He clears his throat, seemingly nervous as he sits back down beside her. "I thought you could use something stout when you woke up."

"I really could." Taking the coffee, she leans into him, pressing a kiss against his lips, pouring all the gentleness she has left into it. The coffee is rich and smooth, settling in a heated pool in her stomach before the warmth seeps into the rest of her body. She's still exhausted, circles under her eyes and a faint ache still in her chest, but in the light of day suddenly things don't seem hopeless.


	7. The Time He Doesn't

**A/n: THE FINAL CHAPTER! I enjoyed writing this, please let me know what you think. Any kind of feedback at all is welcome and it encourages me to continue writing, to be quite honest.**

When she decides to quit caffeine, he gives her one of his patented looks. That "ok sure sweetheart" look that absolutely makes her want to fly off the handle, to angrily list the seven hundred reasons the _stimulant_ is bad for the human body. She has a list already printed and taped to the fridge. He knows this, and that's why he does it. If there's one thing that Frank likes, it's when her skin is flushed and her eyes are wide and she's yelling about something she's passionate about. But then she says the one thing he can't deal with.

"You could stop drinking it too. Solidarity and whatnot."

"Not gonna happen." He says it with a mock-frown, waiting for her to launch into a diatribe. He's honestly anticipating it. But she doesn't.

It's been months since her father died, and they're together now, at least as much as it is possible for the 'Punisher' to really be with anyone. His things are in her closet, his toothbrush sitting in a little cup right beside hers. They sleep in her tiny twin bed, legs all twisted together, he head planted squarely on his chest. She even lets his dog curl up at their feet. She says he keeps her toes warm in the winter, but Frank knows it's because she can't handle the pouty faces the creature makes. This little apartment is cramped, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He supposes he should make some concession, negotiate a little with her. She deserves that much.

"How about… half-caf?" He's ribbing her, a little smirk hidden beneath a couple day's worth of stubble. "I might actually die if you cut me completely off."

She shakes her head. For someone who isn't drinking caffeine, she's particularly jittery, wringing her hands as she paces back and forth. She's wearing a hole in the small patch of linoleum by her kitchenette. "Frank, um… I _have_ to stop drinking coffee."

The look she gives him is imploring, eyes wide, mouth much too serious for the topic at hand. Suddenly all the mirth in him evaporates, and he knows what she's trying to tell him. "How long?"

She clears her throat, turning away from him to rummage in the fridge for some orange juice. With her back to him she says, "Oh, uh, you know the time frame for these things is usually, um… nine months."

It's like sirens are going off in his head, his heart seizing up in his chest. A cold feeling of fear takes hold of him. "Karen."

At the sound of her name, so calmly spoken in his raspy morning-voice, she turns. The refrigerator door swings shut behind her. "I'm at eight weeks, really early still."

She sounds regretful, but he can't quite process it, his own heart thundering in his ears. "I need a minute."

And he's gone, walking out the door without so much as a look in her direction. It's exactly what she feared would happen, that dropping this bombshell on him would be too much too soon. She can't even imagine what the idea of having another child must feel like to him. She has all the sympathy in the world, but it still doesn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Even though she knows all the reasons this is a bad idea, she can't help but already love the little thing inside of her, can't help but imagine holding a child with dark eyes and a serious expression.

Steeling herself for a miserable day, Karen grabs her coat and heads to work.

* * *

She's swaying slightly, clutching the pole in the rocking subway car as she heads home to her empty apartment. Part of her wonders what she'll see when she opens the door. Will Frank's things, all the little touches of him scattered across the place, be missing? She's always had an amazing amount of strength inside of her, but the thought of a Frank-less apartment sets her chin to quivering.

Lost in thought, she barely notices the tall man who sidles up next to her. It's only when something warm is shoved into her hand that she looks up. He's so close, his nose inches away from hers, eyes boring into her soul. She can't take the intensity and looks down to see what it is that he's brought her.

It's a paper cup, steam coming out of the vented lid. She doesn't know why exactly, but her heart breaks all the more. "Frank, I told you. No more coffee." The cup feels like a symbol, like an expectation. Don't stop drinking coffee Karen. I don't want this child, but I do want you. She's on the verge of tears, because this is not a compromise she can make.

Then she feels it, his gentle fingers at her chin, tipping her face back up to meet his. He says, "I know. It's chamomile tea."

"Tea?"

The single word is a waterlogged question, the tears from earlier finally spilling out. He brushes the moisture away, leaning his forehead into hers for a gentle kiss. "Yeah. I'm sorry I left." He has more to say, but it's hard for him. No matter how much progress he thinks he's made, he still doesn't like divulging the things that have the power to destroy him. "I felt guilty… that I was moving on. When you said it… I felt hope swell in my chest, and then I immediately felt guilty. I think it'll always be that way when good things happen for me."

She nods, resting her head on his shoulder, leaning into him. "It's okay. You're right, we'll figure it out."

He smiles. "Just don't try and make me quit drinking coffee."

"I wouldn't dream of it."


End file.
